


This Tall To Ride

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Supernatural
Genre: Completely Self-Indulgent Crossover Pairing That Nobody Asked For, Dirty Back-Alley Blowjobs, I don’t even know, LOL-Worthy Height Differences, M/M, Oral Sex, Pain Kink, Reluctant Sadist, Reluctant Sadist Sam Winchester, Revenge Era Frank Iero, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21656056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: “When it’s time for the show, the band starts to troop toward the stage. Frank goes careening off a wall and takes a running leap onto the blond one’s back, only to get shaken off like a fly.Frank, undeterred, looks speculatively at Sam.“Must be this tall to ride,” Sam deadpans, holding out a hand about an inch over Frank’s head. Frank just giggles, bright and gleeful, and skips ahead to heckle the one with all the hair.”
Relationships: Frank Iero/Sam Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	This Tall To Ride

Sam’s not sure how, exactly, they ended up with the job, but maybe Dean owed somebody a favor, cause he doesn’t look excited about the prospect either. It’s a band with a song that’s huge on the radio right now, apparently, and Sam’s never heard of them or it, but the face Dean makes when he mutters “emo bullshit” speaks volumes.

Apparently people who go to their shows keep turning up dead. The police think ritualistic suicides, think the band’s leading some sort of cult, but Dean’s contact swears up and down that something else is going on, and he’s worried the band themselves are a target too. 

Sam looks up a couple pictures. In every one he can find, they’re all covered in artistically splattered blood.

Sam thinks, _shit, this is gonna suck._

*

Sam can’t help watching the hyper little shit with all the tattoos. 

Since they came in, he’s barely stopped moving for a second. He’s bouncing on his heels, plastering himself against his bandmates, grinning and giggling. He’s got this godawful skunky dye job going on in his fucked up not-quite-a-mohawk. He’s got bits of metal sticking out of his face, scraped-up knees sticking out of holes in his skinny jeans, and eyeliner smeared everywhere. He’s _short_. He’s so not Sam’s usual type. Not even a little bit.

But... the smudges of black and red make the guy’s eyes pop a shocking, hypnotic shade of green. He’s got this smile like he’s always laughing at a private joke. And as much as Sam wants to dismiss him as a dumb punk, there’s something about him (the flash of intelligence in his eyes, the defiant tilt to his chin, something) that keeps catching his eye. It’s like watching a feral animal, the way he moves.

This kid walks around like he’s just silently daring the world to fuck with him, and Sam has the sudden stupid urge to _try_ it; he imagines grabbing that dumb hair, pulling it back to bare his neck, marking up the pale skin with his teeth and fingernails...

Sam shakes himself. Those aren’t thoughts he’ll usually admit to. 

Sometimes he misses not having a soul. It meant not having to feel guilty about what he likes.

“What’s your name again?” Sam asks, when they’re standing by a table of coffee fixings, relatively alone.

The kid gives Sam this sharp-edged smile, tilting his head to the side, as he holds out a freshly-poured coffee. Sam takes it. Their fingers brush, and the touch lingers.

“Frank. And you’re Sam.”

“Yeah.”

The kid (Frank, Sam reminds himself, but he does seem so much like a kid) looks up through his lashes as he starts to fill his own cup, and Sam knows that look. It’s been a minute, since he hooked up with a guy, but that look is pretty fucking universal.

Sam thinks, _okay, sure, I guess._

*

Sam watches. He sees the layers of fresh purple bruises on top of old green bruises on Frank’s arms, the way he throws himself against the furniture, keeps drumming his fists against random surfaces, jumps on his bandmates, does everything just a little bit harder than necessary.

Frank keeps running his fingers over the plastic-wrapped surface of a brand-new tattoo on his arm. It’s the kind of thing people do after their _first_ tattoo; Sam was tempted to do it too, when he got his anti-possession symbol. It was such a different kind of pain than he was used to, the way the skin felt like it was burning slowly from the inside, and even though Sam’s more into _inflicting_ pain than feeling it, there was something enthralling about the new sensation. But this kid is covered in ink. It’s not about the novelty.

When he thinks nobody’s watching, Frank prods harder, really pressing in, and his eyes go dark. His tongue flicks out over his lower lip and his eyelashes flutter, and Sam thinks, _huh_.

*

When it’s time for the show, the band starts to troop toward the stage. Frank goes careening off a wall and takes a running leap onto the blond one’s back, only to get shaken off like a fly.

Frank, undeterred, looks speculatively at Sam.

“Must be this tall to ride,” Sam deadpans, holding out a hand about an inch over Frank’s head. Frank just giggles, bright and gleeful, and skips ahead to heckle the one with all the hair.

Dean goes down to stand with security, but Sam watches from sidestage. There’s an almighty roar when the lights go down, and when they come back up again, the guys on the stage can’t possibly be the geeks Sam met in the green room. The singer is strutting and posing and screaming, lights are flashing, and someone’s making an unholy racket on the guitar, playing a riff that sounds a lot like Iron Maiden, and Sam can’t help but smile when he imagines what Dean’s face must look like right now.

It might not be Sam’s _thing_ , exactly, but it’s not fucking bad, either.

Frank flings himself all over the stage, completely reckless and lost, kicking the air, banging his head. He’s drenched in sweat before too long. Sam’s trying to keep an eye out for suspicious satanic cult-like activity, or whatever, but he can’t really tear his eyes away.

He ricochets off a monitor and spins away. He goes up and licks the singer’s face, the whole disgusting sweaty side of it. He hurtles back to his own microphone just in time to scream backup, and then he just sort of folds forward, dragging his mouth down the mic, still playing relentlessly fast, turning his head sideways to bite at the mic stand.

Sam can see sweat dripping off his stupid skunky hair. Sam can see the way he’s pressing his guitar to his crotch like he’s trying to hide something. It’s fucking _ridiculous_ , over-the-top slutty, and it shouldn’t be getting to Sam like this. Then Frank melts down to the ground and starts writhing around on his back, his mouth open in this utterly pornographic gasp as he thrusts his hips up in the air, and Sam has to swallow hard and adjust himself discreetly.

Frank’s fingers slam into the fretboard even after the strings start cutting him open. There’s blood spattering on the white guitar by the end of the show and it’s not slowing him down, not even a little bit.

Sam _wants_.

When the band spills offstage, when the crew is scurrying around getting everything ready for the encore, Sam watches from across the wings. Frank seems to fucking _vibrate_ with energy as he looks down at his shredded fingertips. He gives a heavy-lidded grin and opens a water bottle with his teeth. The water sprays everywhere as Frank pours it over his head and shakes like a dog, and then he pours half the bottle into his open mouth, lets it run down his chin and drip down to his heaving chest, and he tilts his head back with a sigh, mouth wet and slack as he tries to catch his breath.

Frank turns his head and looks right at Sam, like he knew Sam was watching the whole time. He licks his lips, flashes a bright white smile, and grinds forward against his guitar, subtle like an anvil. Sam wants to roll his eyes but instead there’s a flash of heat in his gut and he thinks, _fuck yeah._

*

When the encore is done and the lights go down, Frank comes right for him. He’s got his jaw clenched, and his hands are balled into fists at his sides, and when he stops right in front of Sam and stands just a hair too close, it’s obvious he’s hard in his jeans.

“I’m going for a smoke break,” Frank announces, and he’s off again before Sam has a chance to mention that he doesn’t smoke.

Sam shakes his head a little, but he follows. Something about this guy makes him feel like his skin is buzzing, like maybe the kid has so much energy it’s rubbing off on him. Sam’s itching with it, suddenly.

Frank walks so fast that Sam almost loses him. He turns down a hallway, trots down a flight of steps, and crashes through a door without a backwards glance. By the time Sam makes it out into the alleyway, Frank’s got a lighter cupped in his hand, and his sweaty skin sparkles in the yellow glow of the ugly emergency fluorescents as he lights a cigarette. He’s still panting, out of breath from the show.

Frank leans back against the brick wall, head tilted back, hips forward, cock hard and obvious against the seam of his skinny jeans. He eyes Sam up and down appraisingly. Sam waits, hands in his pockets, posture casual like he has no idea what’s happening here. It doesn’t take Frank long to lose patience.

“Are you just gonna stare all night or are you gonna make a move?” Frank snaps.

Sam sidles forward, gets right in front of him, so Frank has to look up even more to meet his eyes.

“How tall are you?” Sam asks.

Frank’s eyes narrow. He blows a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “None of your fucking business.”

Sam smirks and holds up his hand again, the same way he did earlier, just an inch over the top of Frank’s head.

A grin tugs at Frank’s lips as he takes a deep drag and releases it in a cloud. Then he raises one perfect brow and holds eye contact as he rocks up on the balls of his feet, standing on his tiptoes to butt his head gently against Sam’s raised hand.

Sam laughs. He crowds forward into Frank’s space, fists a hand in the back of his sweat-soaked shirt, makes him bend back to meet his mouth. The kiss is rough and aggressive, all tongue and teeth, and Frank’s lips taste like sweat and nicotine but they’re hungry and sure on Sam’s, sucking, biting, _fiery_.

Sam’s lightheaded when he pulls back for air. His mouth already feels bruised.

“You taste like an ashtray,” he mutters, but he’s leaning back in for more.

“I know how to fix that,” Frank mumbles. Then he’s tossing his cigarette to the side and dropping to his knees so abruptly Sam can hear the impact of concrete on bone.

He doesn’t tease. He yanks Sam’s jeans open and sucks him down, hard and fast, with this obscene slurping noise. Sam hisses and braces himself with one hand against the gritty brick wall. It feels like every drop of blood in his body is rushing south, throbbing in his dick, and he’s rocketing from half-hard to hard-as-nails, Jesus-fucking-Christ- _hard_ , so fast he’s dizzy.

He threads his other hand through the long hair at the back of Frank’s head. It’s sweaty, brittle from dye, fucking _nasty_ , but when Sam gives an experimental tug, Frank moans. The vibrations go right down Sam’s cock and ripple up his spine. He’s filling out, fast, and Frank has to inch back, wrapping his fingers around the base and stroking nice and firm, calluses scraping just rough enough. Sam pulls his hair again and Frank’s eyes roll back in his head.

Frank gags, but recovers, pulling off for a second. He looks up at Sam with this sort of sneer, rocking back on his heels just long enough to snarl, “ _Harder_ , motherfucker.” Then he’s sliding down again, choking himself, but when Sam pulls his hair, the way he moans makes his throat open up and Sam slides down further; he feels Frank swallow around him like a hot wet vise grip, and his hips jerk forward involuntarily, and Frank just fucking _takes it._

Sam gets his other hand in Frank’s hair, too, holding his head still, and he thrusts shallowly into Frank’s throat, and it’s rough and sloppy and perfect.

Frank looks filthy on his knees with his lips all red and stretched open like that. When Sam pulls his hair and tells him so, he whines and shudders, and Sam can see his hand moving, cupping the front of his own jeans, rubbing himself desperately. The sight is just too much, too _dirty_ , and Sam can’t hold back any more.

“Shit,” he grunts, and he twists forward, his whole body shaking as he fucks Frank’s mouth. “You… I just… wanna fuckin’... _fuck_ you up, _god_.”

Frank moans, strangled, his shoulders heaving as he tries not to choke, and Sam has to stutter out a warning as his hips punch forward. Frank seals his lips over the head and sucks hard, and then Sam’s doubling over, vision whiting out as he comes, hard and overwhelming and punch-in-the-gut _good_ , wringing him out, leaving him gasping.

It takes a second for Sam to blink the spots from his vision. He looks down as he fumbles with the button of his jeans.

Frank’s sitting back on his heels, panting for breath, and his eyes are glittering like he’s been drugged. He’s got one hand fisted in the back of his own hair, white-knuckled. His jeans are open, shoved down just enough that he can press the heel of his other hand against the base of his cock; he’s hard and leaking and flushed dark, hard enough it’s gotta hurt, hard enough that he’s obviously been hovering on the edge for a while now. He’s got eyeliner trailing down his cheeks where his eyes were watering, and his lips are puffy and used. He looks debauched and gorgeous, fucking _sinful_.

“Up,” Sam says hoarsely. He pulls him by the hair and catches him when he staggers on stiff legs.

Frank slumps back against the brick wall and groans, “Please.”

Sam grabs him by the hipbones, gripping the sharp jut of them, and leans down to whisper in his ear: “Tell me we’re staying in a hotel tonight. Tell me I can lay you out and play with you until you’re black and blue.”

“ _Fuck_ , yeah,” Frank croaks, and the words are cut off by a rough cry as Sam gets a hand on his cock, twists up hard and flicks his thumb over the head. That’s all it takes; Frank is twitching under his hands, letting out this wild, raspy moan and shaking as he comes. He’s clutching at Sam’s shirt like he’s drowning, face all screwed-up and desperate, and it’s the hottest thing Sam’s seen in a _long_ fucking time.

Sam strokes him through it until Frank starts shivering and slapping his hand away. Sam’s got jizz all over his fingers; he slides them into Frank’s mouth, lets him lick until they’re clean, and Frank just looks up at him like the cat who got the cream and _grins_ , nipping at Sam’s knuckles as he pulls his hand away again.

Sam takes a few deep breaths and watches as Frank zips himself up. He’s all pliant and boneless now, slumping against the wall, head lolling back lazily on his shoulders. There’s none of the jittery energy from earlier. This is the longest Sam’s seen him standing still.

“You’re _all_ sorts of fucked up, aren’t you?” is the first thing Frank says, as he fumbles with his cigarette pack. He’s grinning like it’s hilarious. Sam blushes hot.

“Fuck you, then,” he mumbles, and turns to go.

“Motherfucker, _wait_ ,” Frank says hoarsely, choking on an inhale.

Sam pauses and glances warily at him. “What?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, so am I,” Frank says. His eyes sparkle in the dim light. 

“Oh,” Sam says stupidly.

Frank giggles, high-pitched and scratchy. “Now, you said something about beating the shit out of me? Let’s go figure out this hotel situation.”

He takes one more long drag and tosses the almost-whole cigarette, and then he’s brushing past Sam and bouncing toward the door, unselfconscious in spite of the bloody knees, jizz-stained shirt, and fucked-up hair.

Sam’s paralyzed for a moment, watching him go. Frank smiles over his shoulder, blindingly bright, as he grabs the door handle.

“Let’s go, motherfucker! What are you waiting for?”

Sam shakes his head and follows.

He thinks, _**oh**_.


End file.
